GLIDING OVER THE snow as if on rails.
Setting the world to rights.
‘That’s what you said the last time we talked. I remember it,’ says the distant voice. ‘Is there a special reason why you think of it now? Do you have some particular picture in your mind’s eye?’
A particular picture …
‘It’s always the same one,’ she says.
The bus turns into the narrow street. She lives at the end of it, with the grey lake to the left, the white football pitch to the right.
The telephone feels light in her hand.
‘I’m seeing someone in a moment. Would you like to bring our next appointment forward? According to my diary we’re not due to meet again until next week,’ he says.
The grey lake where Ilmari used to swim.
‘I can find time this evening,’ he says.
The white football pitch where Veikko used to play.
‘This evening at 18.30 hours? I’ll square the fee, we can manage that,’ he says.
The man lying on the floor. The questioning look in his eyes as he stares into the void. She stands on the edge, waiting. She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for.
She thinks of the letter that came with this morning’s post. She stared at the sender’s name for a long time. A friendly letter, a warm invitation, and two train tickets enclosed. There and back. Who can describe it if she can’t?
‘We’ll talk about the picture you have in your mind’s eye this evening,’ he says.
An empty hall. The man lies on the floor, looking up. She follows the direction of his eyes. She can see the sky above a glass ceiling. She stands at the edge waiting for the sky to fall in.
But it doesn’t.
Nothing happens.
‘I’m making a note of it now: 18.30 hours. Are you still there?’
A stranger listens to her, listens to her silence.